The Birthday Present
by wordybirdy
Summary: Brown paper packages tied up with string.  Holmes tries his best, and Watson struggles bravely.


My great friend Sherlock Holmes has always had an infinite capacity to surprise. Knowing him in close proximity as I do and being familiar with his habits and eccentricities, I have learned that it is simply the way of his charismatic nature, for better or for worse. And so it was with a rather apprehensive smile that I approached my writing desk one crisp, bright morning in May 1890 and surveyed the peculiarly large parcel which had been deposited thereon. It was wrapped in a plain brown paper and tied excessively with string. A desultory attempt had been made at a bow ribbon which now sat crooked and dangling upon the top side like some lunatic barnacle.

"Whatever is this, Holmes?"

Holmes looked up from his chemistry table at which he was conducting yet another noxious experiment - this particular one consisting of a pink smoke and a cabbage aroma - and smiled in the most mysterious fashion.

"It is an early birthday present, Watson. I believe it is just what you need. No need to thank me, old fellow," said he, lowering his head once more, "just enjoy."

I took out my pocket knife and cut the string tied around the box. I removed the brown paper, then carefully lifted one of the top flaps and looked inside. I took another look.

"It is a sewing machine?"

Holmes paused in the process of examining a litmus.

"What? No! My dear Watson, I suggest that you make an urgent appointment with your optician the first thing tomorrow morning. Why on earth would I be giving you a sewing machine as a gift? You are not a tailor."

I looked again. I removed a little of the protective packaging material. I lifted the contraption clear of its box and cleared a space for it upon the desk. Once safely seated thereon, I took the liberty of staring at it in all its bare glory.

"What do you think of it?" Holmes's anticipatory eagerness would have been touching if I hadn't been quite so thunderstruck.

"It is a… typewriter, Holmes."

"It is!"

"But I cannot type, Holmes."

"Pish! You can learn. How difficult can it be? The letters are printed on the keys. There is a… bar which moves you along, and a… handle device which moves you up. I think. I have not tested it for myself. You are the writer. Many happy returns, old boy."

I ran my finger across the top of the machine. It was smooth and cold to the touch. I dabbed at a key. A small lever rose from somewhere within the centre of the beast, and made a threatening attempt for the black roll. I withdrew hastily. A sheet of printed instruction paper was included with the box. In small, closely set text it was happy to inform me of the singular excellence of the invention I now had proud privilege to call my own. It cheerfully advised of the mechanics for feeding a sheet paper into the platen, and of manoeuvring the carriage release. The diagrams seemed to bear little relation to the machine itself. My vague feelings of anxiety now politely requested permission to evolve into rather more precise feelings of blind panic.

I looked across to Holmes, concealing my torment quite nicely, I think, for he did not blink at all but smiled at me encouragingly.

"Do try it out, Watson."

I sat down at my desk as a man doomed, and pulled the typewriter towards me. Taking a sheet of foolscap I fumbled, scrabbled and rolled it through the platen device thing. A little the worse for wear, it emerged reluctantly upon the near side. I jabbed experimentally at the carriage release lever; the paper complained vociferously at a 45 degree angle. I pulled, twisted and adjusted until it appeared as straight as it was ever likely to be. I took a deep breath, and bent my head to examine the keys for the first time.

"Holmes, they are not in alphabetical order!"

"My dear Watson, I'm afraid I cannot help you there. They are surely placed in that peculiar fashion for a reason. Perhaps the women like it that way." Holmes held a test tube to the light and swirled the contents. "I'm glad you're enjoying it."

"Um…" I looked back to the key top. My first work upon this machine would be a letter of thanks to my dear friend. I hit the 'D'. Two levers sprang up, both failing by a small margin to hit the paper. I tried once more, with renewed concentration and vigour. This time the correct lever made sharp contact but stuck fast to the ribbon. I prised it away, smudging black ink onto my fingers. A muddy 'd' glared unhappily back at me from the paper. Well, it was a start. e, a, r. 'dear'. I thumped the space bar; the carriage jerked and took the liberty of five spaces. I was perhaps moving too fast. Slowly, I typed in my friend's name. h, o, l, m, e, s. Space. No, not a space. I needed to move the…release gadget. Or was it the knob on the side? I groped for the instruction sheet.

Twenty minutes later, and my masterpiece was complete. Leaning back in my chair I mopped away a thin film of perspiration from my forehead, and surveyed my handiwork. The platen was reluctant to relinquish my prize, but with perseverance I managed to remove it with only minimal tearing. I folded the paper in two, and walked across to my friend at his chemistry table.

"I have typed you a letter, Holmes," said I, proudly.

Holmes's look was guarded. "Thank you, Watson." He took and opened it. There was a moment of pause while he digested the contents.

"Watson, I appear to be having some difficulty in translating your letter. Might you be willing to assist?_ 'dear holmes'_, well, that is legible at least. _'thak you for thee lvjy pprefent'_ I am sorry. Watson?"

"Thank you for the lovely present."

"I see. Hmm. _'i amm dping ny best tp work ths mavhine bvt it is qute difffcult for me at prwsent'_. Oh Watson, really?"

"I am doing my best to work this machine but it is quite difficult for me at present," I mumbled, red-faced.

"Well yes, that much is becoming very apparent. _'sinverley, watson_.' I think I can decode that without assistance. At least you spelled your own name correctly - although the capitalisation leaves very much to be desired."

"My fingers appear to be a little large for the keys, Holmes. I am sure that with practice I will become more adept."

"I would certainly hope so, otherwise your long-suffering publisher will be most sorely tried when your next manuscript lands upon his desk."

"Holmes, it is ungallant for you to make fun of me when you yourself have not laid a finger on the machine. I should very much like for you to share in the pleasure of this generous gift."

"I would really rather not at the moment, Watson. I am very occupied with this litmus."

"Then I shall smoke my pipe and read my sea novel, and you may have your turn whenever you see fit," said I with a chuckle, and reached up for my pouch of Arcadia Mixture.

* * *

><p>The next morning I was astonished upon entering the sitting-room for breakfast to discover that the typewriter had been carefully reboxed and neatly tied. Many screwed up and discarded balls of paper were laying still upon the carpet around the desk.<p>

One surviving piece of paper lay upon the top of the box: an unevenly typed and heavily smudged line, tilted at a distressed angle.

_'itt is a wise man whho knws when hhe is beatten. ever yours,, shrlock holmws.'_

And I would consider my friend, Sherlock Holmes, to be quite the wisest of men.


End file.
